


Questions in Threes

by MadcapRomantic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sex, Fingering, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oblivious Stiles, Rimming, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8525647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadcapRomantic/pseuds/MadcapRomantic
Summary: The first time is an accident, the second is a coincidence, and the third develops a pattern.





	1. Accident

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna stop pretending that I'm writing this shit on accident, and you can stop pretending that's not -exactly- why you came here.
> 
> On today's bingo card, please mark off the following; crossdressing, specifically Stiles in lingerie, Stiles is oblivious, dirty talk, and bossy bottom!Stiles.
> 
> If you'd like, check me out on tumblr as madcapromantic, or my exclusive Sterek blog as towhomthewolfkingbows.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are appreciated. Seriously.

The first time is an accident.  
  
Stiles’ heart thunders in his ears, pounding against the cage of his ribs like it desires little more than to flee. His hands aren't trembling - _they aren't -_ as he slices through the tape with a box knife. The small, unassuming cardboard box was on his doorstep when he came home, patiently waiting for his arrival, even though Stiles has been anticipating it's arrival for nearly a week.  
  
When he folds the cardboard back, he freezes. In his pocket, his phone vibrates. Sighing, Stiles delves into the confines of his jeans and thumbs the screen.  
  
“Dad?”  
  
“Hey, Stiles. Just wanted to remind you I'm working a double tonight, so I won't be home until after you leave for school in the morning.”  
  
Stiles snorts. “I know. I reminded you before I left this morning.”  
  
His dad pauses, chuckles. “I guess you did. Well, you know the drill; don't burn the house down.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Stiles grins. “No promises. See you tomorrow, dad.”  
  
“Night, son.”  
  
Stiles turns his phone off; he wants peace, and and hour to himself isn't a ridiculous request. His eyes turn back to the box, and he folds the cardboard flaps back once more.  
  
There, nestled neatly amongst a bed of tissue paper is a pair of lacy, red panties.  
  
Stiles swallows, his mouth dry, the sound deafening in the quiet of his room.  
  
With a delicate touch, he runs his fingers over the smooth fabric. He likes them; the color, their softness, every bit.

But he doesn't take them out. Not yet.

Stiles stands and divests himself of his clothes, not caring where they land as he strips. Soon enough, he's naked and bare.

He takes a deep breath, readying himself. He pulls the scanty garment from the confines of the box and slowly, _slowly_ pulls it on.

It's better than what he thought it would be The silk clings to his skin, accentuating his hips. His ass looks high and tight as he turns to check in the mirror. But most of all, _most of all_ , he likes the way his cock sits, nestled by the smooth fabric.

Stiles runs his fingers over the divot of his hips, the small vee formed from hours of running with the wolves accentuating the curve. He's not muscular, but he's not scrawny; his body is lean, but he's still just the slightest bit bony.

There a sharp intake of breath behind him, and Stiles’ whips around to see one Derek Hale on the perch of his window, one leg inside his room while the other is bent on the sill.

The clock on Stiles’ wall ticks three times, but Stiles is sure that it's not seconds that it's counting but _years_. He suddenly is a burst of motion, scrambling around for whatever article of clothing he can get his shaking hands on. He pulls his rumpled tee and holds it in front of his crotch.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Derek! Do you not understand what knocking is?”

Derek opens his mouth, eyes intently staring at the wad of cloth Stiles is holding in front of his nethers. “Your heart was pounding, and you weren't answering your phone.”

“Oh my god, of course this is somehow entirely my fault. Can you just - I'm not - this isn't - _can you stop staring at my dick?!”_

Derek's eyes race to meet Stiles’ gaze. He licks his lips. “Can I touch you?”

Stiles’ heart stops. It has to; there's no conceivable reality in which he puts on lacy red panties and Derek 'two percent body fat, you could wash clothes on my abs’ Hale asks to touch him. He has to be dead; there's no other explanation.

Turning on his heel, Stiles puts his back toward Derek. He squeezes his eyes shut, mortified beyond comprehension. “Can you - we - there's not-”

Stiles jumps when he feels warm breath against his bare shoulder.

“Can I touch you?” He hears again, the words spoken with a whisper.

Stiles peels his eyes open and catches their reflections in the mirror; he stands nearly naked, flush staining his face, color creeping all the way down his chest, with Derek behind him, Derek whose eyes are gleaming a brilliant red, whose ears are suddenly pointed, whose hands have claws protruding from each finger.

“Why?” Because instead of really answering, Stiles is curious. It's his nature, as natural to him as breathing.

Derek's eyes in the reflection bore into him. “Because I want to.”

Stiles swallows. Then, for reasons he can't be bothered to figure out at the moment, _he nods._

Derek's hands are like branding irons on his skin, all heat and roughness. It makes him gasp when they press against the fabric on his hips, coast around to the front, just barely skimming by his dick, which sits aching and hard.

It's strange to watch everything that's being done to him in the reflection of his mirror, but at the same time it's absolutely mesmerizing. Derek's skin, slightly tanned from all the time spent in the sun, is a stark contrast to his own pale stomach. He watches as one of Derek's hands coasts up his chest, fingers ghosting over a nipple. He gasps, arches just the finest bit, and Derek's nostrils flare.

The warm breath on Stiles’ shoulder become a wet presence as Derek presses an open-mouthed kiss at the junction of his shoulder and neck. The noise that's pulled out of him is high and keening, and it makes the hand that's skimming the elastic line of his panties pause for just the briefest of moments.

And then Derek's hand is on Stiles’ cock, and it's _game over._ Stiles sucks in a breath of air as Derek's hand pushes past the elastic, encasing his aching cock in warmth as he begins a slow, tight stroke. Root to tip Derek pulls and pushes, and Stiles is _lost._ His head falls back, the nape of his neck resting on Derek's shoulder, his breath hot in Stiles’ ear. His eyes squeeze shut, his mouth falling open as helpless little sounds fall past his lips. By their own accord, his hands creep up, one burying itself in the thick tangle of Derek's hair, the other fisting a handful of the sleeve of Derek's jacket of the arm that's caging him against the warm body.

“Stiles,” Derek pants into his ear, breath short, voice gravel-low.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps. “Der, I'm - I'm gonna-”

Derek hears him, _feels him_ , and pulls his arm tight across Stiles’ middle. His rigid, denim-clad cock is pressed right against Stiles’ asscrack, and Stiles comes like that, with Derek's mouth on his neck and his dick pressed into the crevice between his ass cheeks.

Stiles fights going boneless. He falls forward just the barest amount, but already Derek's pulling away. He reaches out to grip the mirror to keep from falling over, but by then Derek is already gone, the only indication he was ever there being the open window on the other side of the room.


	2. Coincidence

The second time, it's a coincidence. It's nearly two weeks later, and no creature of the night has come crawling out of some nefarious depths to cause Stiles to worry that his less than conventional extra curricular activities might cut in on his study time. Derek hasn't crawled out from whatever rock he calls home, either, and after a time Stiles begins to doubt the idea that he actually received a hand job from Mister 'I’ll Rip Your Throat Out With My Teeth.’ It sounds like the kind of shit he'd dream up, so it's not that far-fetched to think it might have all been a simple fantasy.

He's on his way to get food when his phone beeps. It's Derek, and Stiles debates answering. Then again, he doesn't really have a choice; when he doesn't answer his phone, the pack begins to worry.

Stiles sighs. “What?”

“Pack meeting at the house in thirty. Be there.”

“Dude, I am in my way to get something to eat; can we reschedule?”

“Fine. Pack meeting at my place in  _ thirty five _ . Bring food for everyone and I'll pay you back when you get here.”

“That's not what I-”

Derek's already hung up.

Stiles would like to yell. Instead, he pulls up to the speaker and orders food. Since it's on Derek's dime, he orders himself an extra curly fry.

It's not that Stiles is feeling antisocial. He likes pack bonding nights. It's just that what he's wearing isn't really appropriate for a social setting. See, he liked his panties so much, he went and bought himself another pair, this time in black. But that's not all; oh no. Stiles also went and bought a pair of thigh-high stockings to match.

Granted, no one can actually  _ see _ that he's wearing both the stockings and the panties; he's wearing jeans over them, just his normal clothes. But  _ he _ knows. He knows because he likes the way the lace of both articles feels against not only his skin but the denim of his pants. He was feeling pretty, strutting around his room in his new things, and hadn't wanted to take them off if all he was going to be doing was sitting in his Jeep at the drive-thru. So, he'd thrown on his jeans from earlier in the day and that had been that, a shiver running down his spine as he climbed into the driver's seat.

But  _ no _ . Derek had to go and ruin everything.

Stiles is ten minutes late to the meeting, but everyone is happy to see him when he holds up bags of food as he walks through the door. Burgers and shakes are divvied up to each respective pack member, since Stiles always remembers their favorite things when he orders.

Turns out the impromptu meeting is to actually discuss wolf business. Derek informs everyone that a nomad pack will be traveling through town, but won't be stopping. They've spoken with Derek and have agreed to mind their own business as long as his pack minds theirs. Everyone nods through mouthfuls of masticated potatoes.

The meeting then tapers off and falls into more of what they are used to; Scott pops in a movie without asking and everyone filters in front of the TV without being told.

Halfway through the movie, Stiles gets up to use the restroom. He isn't long, though he does take a moment to run his hands up his thighs, smiling at himself in the mirror at the feeling of the smooth lace beneath his fingers. He washes his hands and when he opens the door, Derek is waiting in the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest.

Stiles’ heart kicks around a bit, but he keeps his breathing under control as he walks past Derek, offering him a nod as he takes his leave. When Stiles turns to round the corner, he notices that Derek still hasn't shut the door to the bathroom. He chances a look over his shoulder and stops dead; Derek's eyes are blazing red and his head is cocked to the side as if he's trying to listen for a specific sound.

And then it hits Stiles; Derek can  _ hear _ the scrape of his stockings against the denim of his jeans.

Stiles practically sprints back to the living room. Scott gives him a curious look when he plops back down on the couch, but Stiles won't meet his gaze.

He doesn't really pay attention to the rest of the movie. In fact, the only thing he pays any attention to his keeping the beat of his heart steady as Derek comes back into the room and sits down next to him on the couch.

The credits of the movie start to roll, and Stiles sags with relief when everyone starts gathering their things and heading to the door. Stiles is just about to follow Scott out when a rough, warm hand clasp his shoulder.

“I still have to pay you back for the food,” Derek says, voice calm.

“Oh. Yeah, right.”

Scott playfully mocks a punch to Stiles’ shoulder. “See you tomorrow, man.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Derek's hand pulls away, and Stiles will bite off his own tongue before he admits out loud that he misses the warmth already.

“Let me grab my wallet,” he says, heading toward his room.

Derek is far too calm. Stiles  _ has  _ to be dreaming; it's the only way the situation makes sense. Or maybe there are really two Derek's, one that ravishes him and one that is a fucking asshole all the time. That's not really fair; Derek's only an asshole  _ most  _ of the time, these days.

But there Derek is, padding barefoot across the carpet of his bedroom, taking up the wallet from on top of his dresser and pulling out a handful of bills for Stiles. He turns around, pads back, and Stiles twists a little bit in order to pull his own wallet from his pocket. His shirt rides up, just the slightest bit, and Stiles freezes on the spot when Derek’s begins to  _ growl. _

“Are you-”

“Why do you think I asked for the reschedule?” Stiles sighs uncomfortably. He haphazardly shoves the bills in his wallet, then crams it back into his back pocket.

When he looks up, Derek’s fangs have dropped. Their eyes meet, and Stiles’ heart rate kicks up somewhere in the million beats a second range.

Derek licks his lips. “In the hallway, I  _ heard _ them.”

Stiles scratches at the back of his head. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I-”

“Can I touch you?”

The air is pulled from Stiles’ lungs like he’s suddenly walked out into the cold. “Why?”

“Because I want to.”

Stiles scoffs. “You said that last time, but it’s not an answer.”

“How is that  _ not  _ an answer?”

“Because I feel like you’re gonna pull the rug from under my feet. Why in the world would  _ you _ want to touch  _ me _ ?”

Derek growls, stalking closer, and Stiles retreats until his back hits the wall. The back of his head bumps the wall as Derek comes so close the tips of their noses are almost touching. “You really have no idea, do you?”

“No idea about what?” Stiles’ voice cracks, torn between feeling angry and feeling helplessly spread out before Derek.

“Can I touch you, Stiles?” Derek presses forward, his nose gliding over the skin of Stiles’ jaw, soft pink lips pressing a kiss to his ear lobe. “Please?”

Stiles doesn’t even realize he’s nodded until Derek is mouthing at the skin on his neck, directly below his ear. He hisses in surprise, raising his arms up and taking hold of Derek’s t-shirt.

Derek’s hands, warm and strong, coast down Stiles’ ribs, then glide over to his fly.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles curses as Derek makes quick work of the zipper. Derek growls in his ear, a rumble in his chest that Stiles can  _ feel _ under his palms.

Derek's hands slip down, edging around to his hips, deft fingers working the denim down Stiles' hips.

It's when Derek's fingers glide over the clasps of his garters that Stiles freezes.

Derek does too, but Stiles suspects it's more involuntary considering the way Derek's eyes flash brightly and his lips pull back.

With only speed and a minuscule modicum of finesse, Derek pushes Stiles’ pants down. They slip and fall to his ankles, and Stiles slams his eyes shut.

But Derek makes a sound then, a sound much like a whine, but that's been torn from him. Stiles peels his eyes open, gazing at Derek who seems  _ entranced _ by Stiles’ thigh-highs.

And doesn't  _ that  _ go straight to his dick.

Derek's nostrils flare, a primordial growl emanating from him.

“Can I blow you?”

And oh shit, Derek Hale just broke Stiles’ brain. He can't words, can't words at all, so he nods, mutely, as Derek runs his rough, work-worn hands up and down his lace-clad thighs.

Derek sinks to his knees, mouth open, panting, his hot breath coasting over Stiles’ panty-clad cock. He noses at it, whines, licks the fabric, and Stiles gasps and moans all while being pressed against the wall by Derek's strong hands on his thighs. He's going to combust, burn to ashes on Derek's bedroom floor; he's never felt anything so good in his  _ life _ . Derek's thumbs are pushing down his panties, soft lace moving aside so Stiles’ dick can spring free. It hangs heavy, red and swollen, slightly curving to the side, and Stiles whimpers as he watches Derek lick his lips.

And then Derek swallows him down, and Stiles is  _ gone. _ He gasps Derek's name, tangles his fingers in Derek's dark locks. His knees buckle, and we're it not for Derek's firm grasp, Stiles would have pitched forward. His keens are high and trembling, and Derek sucks in a breath through his nose and gazes up, his red eyes locking with Stiles’ own. He growls, low in his throat, and  _ fucking christ, _ Stiles almost comes then and there.

The intense gaze Derek is leveling him with is too much. Stiles slams his eyes shut, his mouth falling open as Derek's devious tongue works him close to the edge. He's panting, his words gone, his mouth dry as Derek works him over.

“Derek,” he cries, trying to pull away so he doesn't come down Derek's throat.

But Derek has a different idea, pushes Stiles’ hands away when he tries to pull out. He growls, deep, resonating, and it shakes Stiles to the core. He comes so hard, with Derek's hot mouth around him, sucking down his every drop.

Derek slows, stills and pops off when Stiles begs him to stop, over sensitive near the point of discomfort.

“Jesus Christ, Derek,” Stiles shudders, his eyes coming back into focus.

Derek pulls back, but doesn't stand, a glazed look set upon his face. Stiles cranes his neck slightly only to realize that Derek’s just as spent as he is, cock in hand, fingers coated in come.

And for whatever reason, that's when Stiles panics. Nevermind the afterglow of a mind-shattering orgasm, nevermind the fact that Derek pulled out his cock while he was sucking Stiles off and got off just as hard, nevermind  _ any of it _ . Before he even realises his feet are moving, he has his pants pulled up and is halfway to his Jeep.

_ Jesus tap-dancing Christ,  _ his brain supplies. He's pretty sure he says it out loud, too.

Stiles makes it home without incident, and the moment the front door is shut behind him, he's moving like a streak of lightning, up the stairs and to his room. He strips, completely, and as he kicks off his shoes and readies to remove the thigh-highs, he stops.

There, on the inner portion of his right calf, just below his knee, is a streak of Derek's come.

Stiles groans. “How is this my life?” he laments, halfway between frustrated and turned on.


	3. Pattern

The third time establishes a pattern.

It's a stupid plan. It's an extremely stupid plan, but it's the only one they have, and they are running out of time. An incubus is in town, and he's not staying off the radar; three dead in as many days.

So, here Stiles sits, in a cold, abandoned warehouse, supposedly by himself, being used as bait.

Why him?

Apparently the incubus has a thing for virgins because of course he does.

He'd tried to argue with the pack about it; he wasn't a virgin anymore, not after a hand job and a blow job.

But the counter argument was penetrative sex, of which Stiles has had exactly none, giving or receiving.

When Stiles asked how in seven hells the incubus would even know, Derek stepped forward. “Your scent.”

And oh. That’s nice. Apparently virgins had a smell, an aroma, a bouquet.

It had been Lydia's idea for him to dress in lingerie.

Stiles toys with the idea that she's a telepath. When he pictures Derek on his knees with Stiles’ cock in his mouth, just to see if it will get a reaction from her, the effects are less than desired; everyone else levels him with an inquisitive stare when his boner makes an unwelcomed appearance. He quickly thinks of something, anything and will kill his unwanted friend.

The amount of lace he's used to isn't quite so much, but Stiles would be a liar if he said he didn't like it. The piece is red - crimson, really - and Lydia had used the word 'enticing.’ He's about ninety nine percent sure she's an evil genius.

A growl erupts from somewhere around him, and the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stands at full attention. “Hello?” He calls out, voice cracked with weariness.

The growl grows louder.

Stiles stands, spins around, taking in the rest of the warehouse, trying to assess which direction the incubus might come from.

In the end, everywhere Stiles looks is incorrect because the damned demon decides to drop down on him from the ceiling.

With his wrists trapped over his head, and a heavy body covering his own, Stiles struggles to get free. The incubus above him smiles, like it's a game, a joke, and presses a soft kiss to his neck. “Now, now, sweetie,” he coos. “There's no need to be scared; I'm gonna make you feel so good.”

Stiles manages to wiggle enough to get a leg free, which he promptly uses to knee the incubus in the junk.

It does nothing but earn Stiles a knock to the head. It's a hard one, too, and his ears ring from the force of it, his neck twinging with how fast the blow strikes.

Apparently there's a fight, but Stiles doesn't remember most of it. His head hurts, and keeps hurting, until there are strong hands helping him sit up. It's Derek, which only kind of surprises him. His head begins to clear after a moment and he realizes Derek is using his wolfy mojo to suck his pain away, which surprises him a little more.

Both Scott and Derek help him to his feet. Scott lets go, but Derek's touch lingers. Three seconds later and Stiles is glad for it, because he starts to tip. Derek hefts one of Stiles’ arms over his shoulder and helps him walk toward the exit.

“Scott, text his dad, tell him we got the incubus and I'll make sure Stiles is safe tonight.”

“You need any help?” Scott asks.

“I’ll take care of him.”

Stiles looks up and swears he see Lydia wink at him.

As Derek crowds him into the passenger seat of the Camaro, a warm, leather jacket is wrapped around him. “'m not cold,” he says, though his teeth start to chatter.

Derek sighs, and Stiles thinks maybe he won't reply. “You are likely in minor shock; I need to know you're safe.”

Stiles snorts. “How is your jacket going to protect me?”

Derek sighs again, this time foregoing an answer, and shuts the door carefully. He climbs into the driver's seat. Stiles blinks and the car is already on a major road.

“-ILES!”

“Jesus, wolfman! There's no need to yell!”

“I've been calling your name for nearly a minute! If you have a concussion, you need to stay awake!”

“My head hurts,” Stiles says, like Derek somehow doesn't already know.

A warm, firm hand is suddenly on his thigh. Stiles yelps, tries to push it away, but suddenly the pressure in his head lessens, eases, and he sighs in relief. “God, I love that,” he says as he watches the veins in Derek's arms turn black.

“I'm taking you to the hospital.”

“I imagine my face is in a pretty sorry state right now, isn't it?”

“You look like you got in a fist fight.”

“Now think of what I'm wearing.”

Derek growls.

Stiles pretends not to like the way it makes him feel.

“Now think of what the folks at the hospital are going to think when I show up, dressed like this,” Stiles makes a sweeping motion toward his torso,” looking like this,” he finishes with a flourish about his face.

Derek is silent for all of five seconds.

“Fuck.”

“Yup,” Stiles says, popping the end of the word exaggeratedly.

Derek stays on the main road, keeps his heading toward the loft.

The hand on Stiles’ thigh doesn't move.

Once at the loft, Derek herds Stiles into the bathroom. He starts the shower, runs it hot, then presents Stiles with a fresh, clean towel. “I’ll grab you something clean to wear,” he says as he retreats from the bathroom.

Stiles strips, blatantly ignoring his reflection, though he itches to. He knows once he's cleaned up, things won't look half as bad, so he is determined not to see what may be a gruesome 'before’ image.

The hot water on his skin is divine. Despite how shitty the loft can seem, Derek's water pressure is unrivaled. He sighs into the steam.

A short knock on the door follows. Stiles rubs his eyes. “Yeah?” He calls out.

“You in?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I come in to leave you some clothes?”

Stiles swallows, his throat dry. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure. Just leave them on counter.”

Derek doesn't answer in affirmation, but Stiles hears boots on tile and knows Derek heard him.

Stiles’ vision suddenly goes starry, and he starts to tip, holding his hands out and catching himself on the tile wall before he tumbles down.

“Stiles?” The question of his name is followed by the rattling of shower curtains, and good god Stiles feels more than simply naked and wet when he knows Derek's eyes are on him. His back is turned toward the were, but that doesn't somehow make it better.

“Are you going to be alright?”

Stiles nods

“You don't have to be scared, be afraid to show a little weakness around me, Stiles. I'll help, if you let me.”

“All I am is weak,” he counters.

“Physical exertion isn't weakness. You got the shit kicked out of you by a supernatural creature. I almost had to shift fully in order to kill him. You're not weak, your body is just tired.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I'd like your help.”

Derek's hand comes to rest on the small of Stiles’ back, and the ache is seeped from his bones like flour from a sieve. When the pain is gone and Derek's touch leaves him, he sighs into the stream of water, feeling better than he has in a long while. He hears the distinct sound of a bottle being flipped open, and before he knows it, Derek's fingers are massaging shampoo onto his scalp.

“Thank you,” he says, his words a dry rasp despite the moisture in the room.

Derek tells him to close his eyes as he guides Stiles’ head under the spray. It's a nice feeling, being cared for. It's not often Derek is gentle, and even less often with him, so the entire ordeal is both novel and, strangely, placating.

After the shampoo is gone from his hair, he hears Derek close the shower curtains. “I'll have the first aid kit ready when you're done. Take your time.”

Stiles isn't sure why his heart’s not trying to beat a rhythm right out of his chest. Instead, he feels at ease, calm, placated. It's strange, because he knows he shouldn't be. The run-in with the incubus was a little too close for comfort; Stiles should be coming down from an adrenaline high. But, he's not.

He takes his time in the shower, lets the warm water wash away the dirt and blood on his skin. He likes the way Derek's soap smells, how it almost doesn't smell at all. It's like rain, when it drizzles; a scent barely there. He towels dry after he shuts the water off, pulls on the pair of boxers and sweatpants Derek left for him. They must be Derek's clothes; they are slightly too large, hang off his bony hips.

There’s a moment Stiles debates with himself over the idea of looking at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t normally like what he sees, but knows that there’s no way he looks any better, not after having been the punching bag for an incubus.

Finally, he opens his eyes. It’s bad, but not as bad as it could be; there’s a cut on his eyebrow, not deep enough for it need stitches but deep enough to hurt, he’s got a fat lip, and there’s a lovely purple bruise, blossoming like a flower, on his right cheek. There are a few cuts along his chest, too, though those look more like cat scratches than incubus claw marks. All in all, nothing too terrible; no black eye, no missing teeth. His head starts to twinge, just a little, and Stiles has to guess that there’s like a bruise forming under the hair on the back of his head, but he doesn’t bother feeling for it. It’s there, but it’s not something he’ll see, so he pushes it from his mind.

When he exits the bathroom, Derek is sitting on his bed. There’s an open first aid kit on the comforter next to him, and a wad of cloth in his hands. The cloth gets put to one side, and Derek pats the bed on the other, indicating Stiles should come sit.

Stiles sits with a sigh, his eyes drifting close. He’s tired - not tired enough to nod off, but tired enough that it feels like a weight on him.

“You did good out there tonight,” Derek tells him, pressing a cotton ball with antiseptic to the cut above his eyebrow.

Stiles grimaces.

Derek huffs out a derisive sound. “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”

Opening his eyes, Stiles raises the eyebrow that’s not being attended to. “I sat in a dark warehouse in women’s lingerie. Your standards for me are abhorrently low.”

Derek growls, tosses the cotton ball to the side and presses a butterfly bandage to the wound. “You sat, alone, while you were stalked by a supernatural beast, didn’t freak out when he started putting his hands on you, and managed to knee him in the nuts.”

Stiles actually smiles at that, laughs a little. “You saw that?”

“Good aim,” Derek says, swiping another cotton ball across the cuts on his chest. Those won’t need bandages, but Stiles would rather not get infected from whatever the incubus had under his claws.

“It was luck and you know it,” he rolls his eyes, running a hand over his face. He cringes when he touches the bruise on his cheek, forgetting it was there.

He swears Derek’s eyes glow, but it’s over so quick Stiles thinks he must have imagined it. But, then Derek’s warm palm cups his cheek and the pain starts to bleed away, and Stiles doesn’t know what to think. He raises his hand and pushes at Derek’s wrist. “It’s just a bruise, man. Don’t waste your mojo on me like that; it’ll heal.”

Derek’s nostrils flare. “I can still smell him on you.”

And if that wasn’t enough to make Stiles’ throat go dry, the wad of cloth Derek had placed on the other side of his lap when Stiles sat down rolls from its place atop the comforter and tumbles onto the floor; it’s the lingerie Stiles was wearing earlier.

Stiles’ eyes shoot up from the lace and search Derek’s face for answers. The were seems closed off for a moment, as if lost in thought, and Stiles is about to open his mouth and ask if he’s dreaming when Derek asks him a simple question:

“Can I keep you?”

Even though Derek whispers the words, Stiles hears them loud and clear. His breath hitches and his heartbeat kicks up.

“I don’t understand,” he says, even though he kind of thinks he does.

Derek thumbs over his cheek, his eyes darting down to where Stiles sticks out his tongue to wet his lips. “I want to fall asleep with you in my bed, and wake up with you in my arms. I want to come home to you at the end of the day, in my home, in my bed. I want to mark your skin so everyone knows who you spend your nights with. I want you to be mine, Stiles.”

Stiles thinks he forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“Can I keep you?” Derek repeats, this time meeting Stiles’ gaze.

“Okay.”

 The tension in Derek’s face and shoulders ease, but not completely. “Okay?”

 “Yes,” he clarifies, and Derek’s eyes widen, like he was somehow absolutely convinced that Stiles would turn him down. “But not yes to everything.”

And just like that, Derek’s face shuts down and his shoulders stiffen. He pulls his hand away from Stiles’ face and looks like he’s about to stand, move away, when Stiles pushes his way onto his lap. Feeling bold in a way he never has before, Stiles does what he’s so prone to; he opens his mouth and speaks.

“I wanna fall asleep every night and wake up every morning in our bed,” he says, running his fingers through the hair at the back of Derek’s neck. Derek’s mouth drops open as if that’s the last thing on the planet he expected Stiles to say. “I wanna kiss you goodbye in the morning and goodnight in the evening,” he whispers like it’s a secret, because, for him, for the longest time, it was, this life he wanted with Derek. He ghosts his lips across Derek’s in the promise of a kiss. “I want to wear your marks and scent on my skin so everyone knows who owns you.”

Derek growls, his eyes glowing, and surges up to take Stiles’ lips in a brain-melting kiss. Clawed hands grasp his hips, pull him down further into Derek’s lap. Stiles groans when he feels Derek’s rock-hard cock grind up against his own, and Derek makes quick work of pushing his tongue into Stiles’ mouth.

“If I knew all it was gonna take,” Stiles gasps between kisses, “was for me to parade around my bedroom in panties, I would've bought them ages ago.”

Derek surges up, grips Stiles by the back and hips, and flips them so Stiles is staring up at him from his back. Above him, Derek's eyes glow and his fangs drop.

The sight makes Stiles’ toes curl.

“You like that, big bad?” He godes, running his fingers over Derek's pointed ears. “Me in lace? I'll have to buy some more, ones you haven't seen yet.”

Derek grins, wolfishly, and bends down, presses his face to Stiles’ neck and shoulder. He kisses upward, his hands roaming all the while, until his lips graze the lobe of Stiles’ ear. “I'll buy you whatever you want, so long as that's all you wear when we're together.”

Stiles laughs. “Gonna bend me over every hard surface and fuck me whenever you want?”

Derek whines against him, high and keening, before he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Stiles’ shoulder.

Stew curses, gasps. The sound Derek just made betrays the fangs and claws, but it suddenly clicks in Stiles’ brain; Derek, for all his bark and bite, isn't like that all the time. His touches that first night in Stiles’ bedroom had been gentle, warm and comforting. Derek had fallen to his knees in front of Stiles, had bared the back of his neck.

“Or maybe,” Stiles sighs, dreamily. “Maybe you'll let me push you down, let me ride you.”

Derek practically purrs. He hooks Stiles’ knees up, winds them around his waist, grinds down.

Oh.

He arches up, drapes his arms over Derek’s shoulders, pulls at an earlobe with his teeth. “Is it my turn to ask the questions?” He pleads, feigning innocence.

Derek swallows, nods.

So, the big bad wolf likes to be bossed around, does he?

“Derek?” He whispers.

“Stiles?” comes the strained reply.

“Will you fuck me?”

And just like that, Stiles is a goner.

Derek makes no ceremony about divesting Stiles of his pants. The underwear come off in a similar fashion, and Stiles can’t help the little laugh that escapes him. It’s made up of half nervousness, half incredulity, but it’s like Derek doesn’t even notice the sound. He’s too preoccupied, his mouth open, his chest heaving slightly as he pants.

Below him, Stiles quakes with anticipation. “Just gonna look all night, wolf man, or are you-”

Stiles’ sarcasm is cut short when Derek takes both of his ankles in his hands, heaves the back end of Stiles onto his lap, practically bending the boy in half, and licks a long, wet stripe up the crack of his ass all the way to his balls.

The noise Stiles makes isn’t pathetic. It isn’t.

Warm breath ghosts over his hole before dry lips are pressed to the pucker in a sweet, tender kiss. Then, Derek’s tongue is lapping at his entrance and Stiles fucking moans like he’s wrecked for it. Stiles’ toes curl when Derek shoves his tongue past the tight ring of muscle, his eyes slamming shut.

Stiles would be a mass of flailing limbs were it not for Derek’s tight grip on his ankles. His thumbs slide down from where they clutch Stiles tight so that his thumbs can swipe lightly over the protruding bone, but they otherwise hold him still. Stiles fists the sheets, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps. He’s shaking, he can’t help it, everything is almost too overwhelming; the feeling of Derek’s tongue in him is mind blowing but it’s not enough.

“Please, Derek,” Stiles cries. “Please,” he nearly sobs, knowing what he wants but unable to voice the idea of it.

Derek, however, easily catches on. He withdraws his tongue, but not before lapping at the mess he’s made, growling in a contented manner as Stiles’ hole flutters. He lowers Stiles’ legs to the bed, slowly, carefully, and Stiles opens his eyes in time to see Derek licking his lips, his beard wet with his own saliva. He shudders, moans, begs. “Please, Derek, please.”

Derek looms over him for a short moment, and Stiles hears the sound of a drawer being opened off to one side. He shivers under Derek, his breath hitching, knowing what Derek’s looking for.

When Derek leans back, his mouth is open slightly, his fangs gone but the Alpha red of his eyes still there. He flips open the tube of unscented lube with one hand and drenches his fingers of the other, all the while keeping his gaze locked with Stiles’. Then, tossing the tub to one side, he licks his lips and asks, “will you beg me for it?”

And fucking hell if that doesn’t make Stiles almost come then and there. His hands raise, cover his face, and he’s suddenly embarrassed. He’s naked, while Derek’s still fully clothed, hard cock resting on his stomach, blurting out precome.

“Please,” his breath hitches, the words getting stuck in his throat.

“Please?” Derek repeats, like it’s a question.

“Fuck me,” he whispers, his heart practically beating out of his chest. “Please, Derek. Please, fuck me, please, Ple-”

Derek’s finger slides in him, pushing past the ring of muscles, and Stiles shudders, keens. He swallows, the air forced down his throat dry and hot.

“Please, fuck me,” he continues, one hand moving up to grasp the headboard, the other moving to tangle in his own hair.

Derek’s finger curls, presses in all the way to the knuckle, then eases out. The difference between the two is staggering; Derek’s taught muscles, stoney visage absolutely contradicting the gentle manner in which he fingers Stiles open. Below him, Stiles keens and cries, begs Derek for another finger, which the were obliges.

“Stiles,” Derek coos, moving above him, two fingers still obscenely plunging in and out of Stiles’ body. “Stiles, look at me.”

Stile pries his eyes open. The room is mostly dark, the only light spilling from the open bathroom door. When their eyes meet, Stiles’ breath catches. Above him, Derek looks wrecked. His fangs have dropped, the red glow of his eyes down to a sliver, his pupils blown wide.

Derek licks his lips before Stiles feels his hand moving, his fingers curling, and-

Stiles wails when Derek presses against his prostate. “Please, please, please-” he cries.

“Will you come for me?”

Stiles does, with nothing more than Derek’s fingers pressing inside him. His back arches, and he feels rather than sees Derek move, pressing their lips together, kissing him through his climax.

But even after Stiles coats his stomach, Derek doesn’t stop. He slows, but he doesn’t stop.

He pushes another finger past Stiles’ rim, and Stiles pants out, thrashes his head from side to side. “It’s too much, it’s-”

“Will you let me?”

Stiles sucks in a breath. He knows that if he asks Derek to stop, he will. The thing about it, though? He doesn’t want Derek to stop.

“Please,” he shudders, like it’s the only word he knows.

Derek growls, presses another kiss to his lips. His fingers still push in and out in a slow, steady rhythm, but he avoids hitting Stiles’ prostate.

“Derek,” Stiles sighs, not long after. There are three fingers slowly, methodically, pumping in and out of him like a piston, and his dick gives a valiant twitch, wanting to return to the action. “More. Please, Derek. More, please.”

There’s a fourth finger in him now, pushing him to the brink where pain meets pleasure. He groans, tipping his head back, and Derek showers the skin of his neck with kiss after kiss after kiss.

“Stiles,” he hisses when Stile reaches up and runs his fingers through Derek’s hair. Stiles hears the sound of zipper, knowing that Derek is taking himself out. He shudders.

“Fuck me,” Stiles begs, his cock filling out on his stomach once more.

“Stiles,” Derek repeats, like it’s an argument.

“Fuck me,” he cries.

Before Derek can whisper his name again, however, Stiles twists his hips. Derek’s fingers fall out of him with obscene, wet sound. Derek inhales, surprised, but that’s exactly where Stiles wants him. Hitching one leg up, Stiles twists his body and climbs on top of Derek, reversing their positions.

“I said, I want you to fuck me.” There’s no finesse; Stiles reaches behind him, grabs Derek’s iron-hard cock, lines it up with his slicked-up asshole, and impales himself on it.

Below him, Derek’s eyebrows recede, his fangs peeking behind tightly-curled lips. His clawed hands rest on Stiles’ hips, surprisingly gentle, keeping him in place. He pants, and Stiles does, too.

“Like that, do ya?” Stiles teases. Derek keeps his strong grip on his hips, making it so Stiles’ can’t move, but that doesn’t mean he’s without power here. Instead of moving, he clenches. The low growl that was emanating from Derek tapers off into a high-pitched whine. The were closes his eyes, his head falling back on the pillow, and Stiles grins. “You like to be in charge,” Stiles says, clenching again, earning another whine from Derek. “But I think you like it when I’m in charge just a little bit more.”

Derek thrashes below him, the muscles in his neck straining.

Stiles bends down, presses a kiss to Derek’s throat, licks the skin underneath. “Let go, Derek.”

In a way that’s both surprising and, yet, not, Derek’s hands unclench.

“Can I ride you?” Stiles asks the warm skin of Derek’s collarbone.

Derek’s apparently too fucked out to form words, so he just nods. Stiles chuckles, marveling at how much power he seems to hold over Derek here, Derek who is brick wall under stretched silk and a frown.

Stiles has never done this before, but from the sounds he wrenches out of Derek every time he lifts up and slams down, he must be doing something right. The denim of Derek’s jeans rubs and digs into his ass is the most delicious way; there’s something thrilling about him being naked and Derek being still fully clothed.

Derek shifts his leg, pulling one knee up, and-

“Fuck!” Stiles shouts, the change in angle making Derek’s cock hit his prostate on nearly every thrust.

Taking a deep breath, Derek bites his lower lip, then moves the other leg up, pressing Stils backward so he’s leaning away. Then, with the leverage he’s suddenly found, he pumps his hips up, fucking Stiles nearly breathless.

He can feel it this time, the oncoming orgasm. Derek must be able to read him now, too, because he snarls and presses up further.

“Harder,” Stiles begs, tears streaming down his face. “Derek, please, harder, please, Derek-”

Derek takes hold of Stiles’ hips as he slams upwards. It’s all Stiles can do to hang on, the rush of his climax fast approaching.

But Stiles isn’t playing fair, not completely. He leans down, presses a hand to Derek’s chest, right above his heart, and looks him dead in the eyes. “Will you come for me?”

Derek roars, and it’s all Stiles can do to keep from passing out then and there, his vision whiting as pleasure overrides his brain and cascades down every nerve of his body.

When he comes to, he’s slumped over Derek’s chest, the fabric of his shirt he's still wearing wet, clinging to his body. Derek is running a hand through his hair, gently rubbing the back of his neck.

“Stiles?”

“Derek?”

“Can we do that again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, Again, if you'd like, check me out on tumblr as madcapromantic, or my exclusive Sterek blog as towhomthewolfkingbows.


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